On Sunday night, Remy smiles at me and says, “Dessert? It’s really good here. Would cap off a great day.”
It’s been an amazing day, actually. He mentioned casually on Saturday that he’d be at Gloria’s bedside Sunday afternoon, so I showed up ‘by mistake’ and hung out with him there before suggesting we have dinner. He agreed, then dramatically promised Gloria he wouldn’t reveal any of her shocking secrets to me and made both of us giggle, and after going to an art supply store where he paid what seemed to me like a huge amount of cash for paint and canvases we came to this adorable little restaurant for a delicious meal.
Which I’ve hardly tasted.
Today should be a 400-calorie day, and I’ve gone way past that, but being with Remy is so distracting the food’s hardly managed to register with me. We’re both ecstatic about Gloria’s continued recovery, and especially about how she’s finally beginning to take her hands out of that ‘on the chest’ posture, and though we’ve been comfortable with each other all the way along today I truly feel like he’s interested in me on a deeper level.
The same level on which I’m interested in him.
The naked level.
Though I can still see places where I could stand to lose a bit more weight, yesterday I bought size double-zero jeans and an equally small black top and I feel sexy in them. I want Remy. And tonight, fueled by the great wine he ordered, I am going to get him.
As I take a breath to say no to his offer of dessert, his smile broadens and he says, “Don’t you dare refuse. Let me give you some pleasure for once.”
The breath catches in my chest. Oh, how I’d love to. “Well, okay,” I say, smiling back at him. “If you insist.”
“Oh, I do.” He winks at me then waves over our server, and we are soon picking up our forks to dip into what looks like the best cheesecake I’ve ever seen.
After one bite, I know this is in fact the best cheesecake ever made, and my weeks of deprivation make the feel of its rich fatty sweetness in my mouth almost orgasmic.
“So good,” I murmur, doing my best to sound sexy.
“Absolutely,” he responds, and I doubt he’s trying to sound sexy. He certainly manages it, though.
I only eat a few bites of the dessert, because of how far over my limit each one is pushing me, but when Remy encourages me to take it home I allow it to be packed up. As I tuck its little box into my purse I decide I’ll freeze it and eat just a tiny nibble each day. It’ll be another way to prove to myself that I’m strong and can handle anything.
Once he’s finished his dessert he insists on paying for both our meals, which makes me feel even more like we’re on a date, and after he gives the server his credit card he says to me, “I thought I had enough cash, but I overdid it at the art supply store. Good thing that place doesn’t take cards, though, or I’d be so far in debt I’d never get out. Do you ever feel like you can’t control yourself?”
I nearly say, “Around you, yes,” but I hold that back and say only, “Who doesn’t?”
He grins at me. “So true.” Then his eyes stray to the wine bottle. “We left some. Help me finish it?”
The last half glass of wine goes straight to my head, and once we’re out on the sidewalk, feeling wild and crazy with sugar and alcohol and lust I whisper to him, “That cheesecake was good, but I was hoping I’d get to be your dessert.”
He drops his bag of painting supplies. “Pardon?”
I swallow hard, his shocked and not-at-all-aroused expression proving to me he heard me. Heard me, and didn’t like the idea. I stare down at the ground as the cheesecake churns in my stomach. “Oh, God.”
He scoops up his bag then reaches for my hand.
I jerk it away. “Never mind. Sorry.”
“Valerie, I…”
“Never mind,” I say again, fiercely, without looking up. “Just don’t. You don’t want me and that’s fine. Forget it.”
“I won’t,” he says softly. “I’m flattered. I’m also… I’m gay. But if I weren’t—”
“I didn’t know,” I blurt, cutting him off before he can say that if he wanted women he’d want me. I feel stupid enough already without being patronized like that. Working in fashion I know a lot of gay guys but I didn’t have a clue about Remy. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m good at keeping secrets,” he says. “I didn’t mean to, though. I guess I should have told you, but I never thought you’d— I mean, with Gloria…”
He’s right. Why would he have thought I’d go after him while my sister lay in a hospital bed? I let my own desires and feelings get in the way. Again. When will I learn? “Yeah,” I whisper, my throat so tight with pain and disgust I can’t speak any louder. “I’m horrible. I’m sorry.”
Since I’m not looking at him, he manages to take my hand before I can pull it away again. “You aren’t horrible. Not at all. And I am flattered. And honored. Really, it’s okay. We’re okay.”
He might be, but I can’t handle being with him another second. A taxi stops in front of us since the light at the intersection is red, and I snatch my hand away and lunge for it. Ignoring Remy’s cry of “Wait!” I jump in and lock the door before he can open it.
As the taxi lurches away when the light changes, I can’t resist looking back at him. He stands watching me, and the sympathy on his face makes my over-full stomach twist.
“Where to, lady?”
I give the driver my address then sit feeling sick and miserable until we reach my building where I pay then drag myself up to my apartment, taking the nine flights of stairs instead of the elevator in an attempt to burn off at least a little of the excess I took in.
A few steps away from my place it occurs to me that if I make myself throw up I might get rid of even more. I’ve never done that before, but I hurry into the apartment then straight to the bathroom, where I dump my purse on the floor and jam my finger down my throat.
No luck. Though I stab at myself until my mouth and throat are in agony, I can’t get any further than gagging.
Finally, I give up and slump on the floor with my back against the wall. So useless. So unbelievably useless.
My stomach clenches and I rest my hand on it to calm it, then jerk away when I feel the bulge there.
Horror fills me. Gloria got better when I lost weight, so what the hell am I doing eating dessert and getting fat again?
Dessert. I brought the damned thing home.
I drag myself to my feet, feeling weak and dizzy from my attempts at throwing up, and dig the dessert box out of my purse. As I hold it over the garbage can, though, I can’t make myself let go. Remy gave it to me. He’ll never give me anything else, since I’m going to make sure I never see him again, so throwing it out feels wrong.
How many calories are in it, anyhow? What if I do like I planned and only take a nibble every day until it’s gone? Can I do that?
A rough laugh bursts out of me, making my throat hurt even more. Of course not. I don’t have the willpower for that. Gloria’s health depends on me and I’ve been an idiot. I’ve ruined my diet streak, ruined my time out with Remy, and maybe ruined Gloria’s—
No. I can’t let myself think that. I’ll just restrict even more and make up for it. It’ll be fine.
Something inside me, something weak and pathetic, whimpers at the thought of eating even less, and I know I won’t be able to do it. After everything I ate today I’ve probably stretched my stomach out so I’ll be starving tomorrow and I won’t be able to stop myself eating. I’ll be the blob that ate Brooklyn. New York City. The whole damn state.
No willpower. No control. Just like before, with Anthony. If Gloria dies, it’ll be all my fault.
“You want cheesecake?” I hiss at myself, so angry at my uselessness I can barely breathe. “That’s what matters to you? Fine. Eat til you puke.”
I grab it from the box and take a huge bite. My stomach cramps as I swallow, but I make myself get the bite down and then take another and another.
“You want to gorge yourself?” I think as a fourth bite struggles down my aching throat. “Fine. See how it feels. No control idiot. Stupid useless bitch. Suffer. Eat it and suffer.”
I do. I eat it, and I suffer. My stomach protests after so many weeks of hardly eating but I keep cramming in the cheesecake. Feeling full feels awful, and I desperately miss the clean quiet lightness I feel when I eat next to nothing, but I don’t let up until the cheesecake is gone.
Then I sit there, with my new size double-zero jeans digging into my bloated stomach, and try to burn how disgusted and sick and miserable I feel into my mind.
So I’ll never eat dinner like that again.